


I Wish You Wouldn't Be So Kind

by usuallyfunctioning



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Dark John Watson, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Master!John, Master/Slave, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slash, Slave Sherlock Holmes, Slave!Sherlock, Slavery, slavelock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 07:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1770109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallyfunctioning/pseuds/usuallyfunctioning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is an invalid army doctor, and Sherlock is the slave given to him by the UK Office of Slavery as a reward for John's war efforts. John is embarrassingly out of his depth, and Sherlock wants nothing more than to despise his puzzlingly kind new master. </p><p>Neither can navigate their twisted master and slave relationship--a spiral of lust, loneliness, dependency, darkness, and a humming of something that might eventually become friendship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock fanfic, and I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> **There's violence, non-con, references of sexual abuse, and all around angst and sexual tension. This is a Slave AU, so if you don't feel comfortable, don't read.**
> 
> Please review & critique. Thank you.

John Watson was uncomfortable. Probably more so than he had ever been in his lifetime. He stood in the middle of a plain room, much resembling a doctor’s office, with only one instruction.

"Choose," the secretary had told him.

Choose from the ten or so men and women standing in a line facing him? John couldn't make himself do it. He'd never been okay with slavery, as socially accepted as it was. He wasn’t some crazy abolitionist, but his family never owned slaves growing up. He could never own another person. The mere thought brought bile rising up his throat.

"I can't. Really, I don't need..." his voice trailed off as the woman struck him with an incredulous look.

"You understand that this, John Watson, is an honour? This is a reward for your service to our country."

So John, unable to refuse or argue any more, turned towards the options presented to him. He leaned on his cane and observed. There were some women: his age, perhaps a few years younger, and definitely pretty. Their heads hung, gazes trained on the ground. Maybe... John thought, but he was quick to correct himself. 

Nobody would meet his eyes; everything about this seemed wrong. He was unnerved by the blank, emotionless submission of them all. All, that was, except for one.  
The man was tall and undeniably thin, clad in the simple gray trousers and shirt that all slaves wore. His pale limbs would have been gangly and awkward, if he were not to hold himself with such elegance. His head was up, chin tilted and eyes calculating. God, he had wonderful eyes. He couldn't have been a slave for long, John thought. Standing like that? No, he wouldn’t have lasted. John wouldn't have even been able to tell if the man was a slave if it weren't for the numbers tattooed along the his neck, forming a sequence of five from his ear to his shoulder—the numbers and, well, the fact that John was in a position to own him.

John nodded, turning towards the woman standing next to him. "Alright, then." He cleared his throat awkwardly. "That one." He gestured towards the man that had so curiously caught his attention. He sniffed. ”Do I get any instruction? An explanation? Or is this…? I just… take him home.”

She smiled pleasantly and formally and handed him a small duffel. Glancing inside, John noticed a whip, an extra grey uniform, other tools, they had called them. He thought he might be sick. "You've just returned from service in the army, Dr. John Watson, shot and with possible post traumatic stress disorder. In thanks and gratitude for how you have served our country, it is only appropriate that we provide you with service for your own personal needs. With this explanation, we, as those who embody the United Kingdom Office of Slave-Related Matters, give you the choice of a slave for ownership." 

The woman flew through her debriefing as if she'd done it a million times. She probably had. Then, unexpectedly, she hesitated. "I will caution you, though. The majority of slaves we offer have been broken in. The slave you have chosen, 03172, has had a... shall we say unfortunate history with some of his previous owners."  
John glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye to see an arrogant smirk on the slave’s face.

"Of course," she continued. "I am sure, with the proper training, he could become most pleasurable and obedient…”

John quirked an eyebrow. “So you’re asking?”

“If you are willing to break him in. Or would you like a more docile option? Are you still sure of your choice? 03172?”

John pursed his lips. “Well, yes.” That was the reason John chose him, wasn’t it? The man—the slave—was still human. 

~~~

John had signed the papers, collected his “property”, and the two were now standing in John’s new flat, 221B Baker Street. The cab ride had been tense with silence. The slave hadn't spoken a word, but John hadn't prompted him to. Isn't this how things were supposed to go? The whole: don't speak unless spoken to? Whatever the matter, it left John acutely embarrassed and aware of his lack of slave-related knowledge… etiquette? It had never been relevant.

There they were, then, standing among the dusty furniture of the old flat—John with his meager single suitcase of belongings and the new duffel given to him at the institution, the slave with only the gray shirt and trousers on his back.

John cleared his throat. “Well, then... do you have a name?"

The reply was blunt. "03172."

John was startled by the deep, ringing baritone of the man's voice. God, it was nearly sinful just hearing it. He cleared his throat before trying again. “A real name."

"Sherlock."

"Alright, Sherlock... Don't you have a last name then?” No response. God, he felt daft. Slaves hadn't last names.

An expression somewhere between annoyed and pitying crossed the slave’s face. “You are completely out of your depth, aren’t you?”

John bit his cheek. ”Well, I'm John. John Watson. Nice to meet you, then.”

"I know."

They stood for a second, staring at one another. Wasn't this forbidden ground, for a slave? Staring a master in the eyes? Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and a smirk played on his lips, as if he knew exactly what John was thinking. Sherlock wouldn't break his glare; he was toying with John's naivety, no doubt.

"Don't," John managed, but he still felt strange directing orders at the man in front of him. Of course he had commanded soldiers, led them into the war, even, but it simply didn't feel right ordering a powerless man. John was unsettled, shifting on his feet. 

Sherlock continued staring into John's eyes; he considered it a sort of experiment. How far could he push this new master of his? He might as well test it out the water. His new owner had obviously never owned a slave prior to Sherlock, himself. This would be effortless.

John tried again, taking a step forward, rocking onto his back foot, then front again. "I said, don't."

Sherlock refused to cooperate.

An overpowering urge to dominate—to control—the man in front of him flooded over John Watson. Christ, this was embarrassing. Sherlock was his property, goddammit. Why couldn't he just follow the blasted rules? Two could play this game. Without even realizing his actions, John's fist flew up to connect with the slave's jaw. The second it happened, John’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, I-I didn’t…” he trailed off.

Sherlock stumbled a few steps backward, overwhelmed by the sheer force of John's impact. Relief and disgust swarmed through John's mind with two simple thoughts. The first: maybe he did have it in him to own a slave and teach him his place. The second: he would never allow himself to become that sort of man. “I am so sorry,” he choked out. 

Sherlock registered John's contradicting facial expressions. “Sorry?” he scoffed. “That was a perfectly expected response to my attempted influence over your mindset and command. You’re just like all the rest of them,” Sherlock began, rubbing his fingers over an already swelling jaw. “Your violence just then, was necessary, some might say, to teach me a lesson. Many have tried, I'll let you know. Doesn't seem to work on me. Right now, I was merely testing you, seeing how far I'd have to go to get retaliation—an experiment. Thank you for the input you've so considerately given me." He couldn't help the amount of sarcasm that dripped from his words.

"She was right about you," John said. "I don't know what the bloody hell I've gotten myself into."

A harsh laugh escaped Sherlocks lips. "You most certainly do not."

~~~~~

The rest of the day passed by in uneventful slowness. John made tea. Sherlock sat on the couch. Snide remarks were exchanged. The two watched crap telly for a bit, John constantly shifting in his chair and shooting sidelong glances at the statue of a man sitting on the couch behind him. After a period of time, Sherlock spoke. "What?" he snapped.

“I—nothing,” John muttered.

Sherlock raised an annoyed eyebrow, so John sighed and continued. He had never felt the need to know much of anything about slavery before this. See no evil, hear no evil, the whole deal. "What do I do with you? ...I mean, what have your owners-“ The world was still bulky as it rolled off of his tongue. “-had you do in the past?"

“I’m quite the housekeeper.”

John’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not. They’ve forced me to have sex with them." The slave’s answer was as straightforward as he had presented himself the entire day, but John noticed his shoulders tighten and jaw muscles tense. His eyes looked, just for a fleeting second, so vulnerable. The moment passed. “Beaten me, maybe, too. When they felt like it. That was always such an enamoring pastime. ”

"You're kidding.” John’s mouth dropped open.

“You really don’t know anything.” Sherlock’s voice was strained, yet he acted casual about the whole ordeal, shrugging it off. "I assure you, I'm not. To many I’m aesthetically pleasing, fucking curse it is. You own me. You can do whatever you want with me." His silver-blue eyes closed, and his mouth sneered. "I'm your property."

A rush of unwelcome, but involuntary pleasure rolled over John. This man sitting across from him, with his marble skin and the strangest but most endearing face, his brilliant eyes, was completely John’s. Everything about him was John's.

Sherlock caught the gleam in John's eyes in a heartbeat. It was too obvious. He sighed loudly, dramatically. His hands reached up to start at the buttons on his shirt. Sherlock kept his breathing even, but he couldn't help the soft tremor in his hand. Three down, and John blinked harshly shaking his head.

"No, stop," John said quickly.

“What?" he snapped, then paused. “So now I’m not what you wanted?"

"God. I would never…no.”

Sherlock clenched his jaw and fell back against the chair he sat in, exasperated. “Of course you wouldn’t. Righteous John Watson,” he mocked. “No matter what’s going through you’re head right now, I can tell you that it’ll happen eventually. I’d bet anything on it. You’re all the same.”

John's eyes flitted across the expanse of exposed white chest. The little voice in the back of his head rang through his thoughts. Why not now? What's stopping you now? It's not that wrong, really. He is your property. It's not like this hasn't happened to him before. He's completely used to it.

John snapped out of his thoughts when his eyes caught the deep purple of a bruise edging out from under the open collar of Sherlock's shirt. "Actually," John said slowly, sitting down next to the tightlipped man. "Take off your shirt."

Sherlock's words were rigid. "So you've changed your mind then." His fingers began jerking once more at the buttons of his grey shirt.

"No," John insisted. “No, of course I haven't. It's not like that I just—I want to see your back."

This time it was a flash of fear that rested on Sherlock's facial features. Fear and shame and vulnerability. They were there, no matter how hard the slave tried to cover them up with false arrogance, and John hated the way the emotions rested on the angular face. The shirt slid off, and Sherlock's eyes stared at the wall past John's head in quiet defiance.

"Turn around," John spoke softly. He tried not to focus too much on the jutting of each rib, or the concave of Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock did as told. John couldn't hold in the sudden gasp that escaped from his lips. His stomach clenched. The slave's back was a canvas for bruises and wounds. The whiteness of his skin was nonexistent, being layered instead with the blacks, blues, greens, and yellows of bruises. Nasty, red welts and scars spread across his back. Nothing other than whips could've made those marks. Worse than even that were the cuts. Knives too, not just whips then. There were crude, jagged lines, but the carved words made John quiver in anger. Freak. Mine. Sexy. Nothing. Who the hell thought they could do this to another living person? John traced a light finger down Sherlock's side, and the man flinched, hissing painfully through gritted teeth.

“Pretty, aren’t they?” Sherlock hissed. “They clean your face up all nice and tidy at the Department, so people are interested. They don’t care what’s underneath. I particularly like the misspelling of inadequate. Can you see it?”

"That's it, we're getting you cleaned up." John grunted as he hefted himself up with his cane and walked over to the bathroom for the first aid kit.

"Why?" sherlock demanded when John returned. "Why are you doing this? Any of this?” His tone was openly accusing. “You’re not supposed to be helping me. Come on and just get it over with. Beat me or rape me or—” Sherlock’s strong voice faltered, minutely. “It’s boring, the way you all prolong the inevitable. The way you all pretend we might be friends at first. You’re an ex-military doctor, I know that by now. You’re clearly uncomfortable with slavery, but that won’t matter. It’s laughable the way you’re acting towards me, hoping the burden that will unavoidably weigh on your conscious will be lessened—tedious things, consciouses, I could imagine.” 

John’s forehead creased, and his eyes narrowed. ”No—No, that is not how it is.” He sat himself down on the cushion next to the slave. “I’m taking care of you. It’s my responsibility.” 

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly."

"Excuse me?" John's eyes rose from the contents of the kit he was examining.

“I am not your responsibility. I am not your vulnerable burden,” Sherlock spat.

“Sherlock—“ 

"You've got it the wrong way around, Dr. Watson, Sir. I am the slave. I take care of you, do whatever pleases you, and whatever you bid me to do. I know you were drawn to me immediately upon seeing me, but the question is why? The rest of them, they made you uneasy. Too used perhaps—too broken? But I, I was still my own person. What I've already endured couldn't break me down, and maybe you won't be able to either. You saw that, chose me, and here we are. I want to know if I am your challenge. I don’t know what your strategy is, but I am not one easily broken. You've been kind to me, regarding the moment when we first arrived. You shouldn't be.”

The man’s rich voice struck John speechless. He coughed uneasily. “I was—no, I… you were different. Real. You were… alive?” 

Sherlock scoffed and closed his eyes. 

Why are you a slave, Sherlock? Why have you been treated like this? Why won’t you trust me? “Why?” John asked. “Why shouldn't I be kind to you, that is." His mouth pressed into a firm line.

Sherlock sighed, aggravated at the repetition. ”It won't be long until your moral value leaves you. You'll grow used to me being your pet. Why begin this way? It’s only deceptive to both of us that you treat me like an acquaintance. Just wait, Dr. Watson. Just wait." Sherlock drew in a sharp breath as John pressed a cold, antiseptic cloth onto his back.

"No," John said slowly, drawing out the vowel. "I won't. I can't treat someone like this." He wiped the dried blood off of the slave's back, proceeding to clean the wounds. The infected cuts made his stomach churn. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a short, breathy laugh. "You'd be surprised how this can change people, Sir, slavery.”

“Don’t call me that,” John muttered. He wouldn’t let himself become that sort of monster. The voice in the back of his head made another unwanted appearance. What's stopping you from taking him, right here, right now? It's legal. You don’t need to care about him. 

They sat in another tension-filled silence, broken only by Sherlock's muted hisses and muffled grunts as John wrapped dressing around Sherlock's torso. His fingers brushed bare skin, and he felt more alive than he had since returning to London after the war.

"Done," John proclaimed, minutes later.

Sherlock rolled his shoulders, and John could see that he was sore, having been completely still and arching his back at such an awkward angle, for what, ten or fifteen minutes, now?

Without thinking, he reached up and began running his fingers along Sherlock's pallid shoulders, pressing gently and methodically at the muscles. A massage should help, shouldn't it? But Sherlock's entire body tensed. The soothing movements seemed to be having quite the reverse effect. “Could you stop?” snapped Sherlock.

"Relax," John murmured. "It's only a massage."

With some difficulty, Sherlock relaxed into John's touch.

Listening to Sherlock's controlled breathing, watching Sherlock's fingers twitch, it occurred to John that relax may have been taken as an order. A command from a master to his slave. It wasn't what John wanted, but really, did it matter? No, whispered his unwelcome subconscious.

John stopped. “There you go. Finished. I’ll just need to redress your back for the next week or so.” 

Sherlock nodded, but his lips remained sealed together.

~~~~

“Where do I sleep?" Sherlock asked later in the evening, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

John jumped in his chair and looked up from the book he was reading to see Sherlock standing next to him. It would take him a while to get used to having another person around. “I… I guess I haven't thought about it."

"Obviously not," the slave replied.

John let the comment slide. "I've gotten only one bedroom for the flat," he said carefully, nodding towards the room. "I wasn't expecting... you."

"Neither was I."

John bit his cheek. "So that leaves you the couch, or," he hesitated. "I don't want your back getting worse. You could take my bed—“

"Couch." Sherlock's answer was immediate. "I'll take the couch."

John leaned back in his chair, nodding. "All right then." It didn't bother him that Sherlock wanted to sleep on the couch. Why should it? It didn't bother him one bit. Not at all. "You'll be needing me to get you something to sleep in."

"Really? I wasn't aware of my lack of possessions. Thank you for reminding me. I apologize for the inconvenience." Sarcasm rang through his words.

"Do you mind?" John stood.

“I’m not happy with this situation, either, might I remind you,” barked Sherlock. “I didn’t have a slave of my choice bestowed upon me in reward for my glorious war deeds, John. That was you.”

“You were not ‘bestowed upon me’,” John said. “You were dumped on me. I didn’t have much of a choice, either, alright?”

“You could’ve said no.” 

“Yeah, and you could be holed up and bleeding in some fucked-up bloke’s bed, but you’re not. You can stop complaining.” The doctor began walking towards his bedroom with the aid of his cane.

Sherlock followed, and replied with mock servitude. “Does that bother you, Dr. Watson?"

"Well, yeah a bit. You shouldn't be talking to me like that." He rummaged through his dresser, having unpacked earlier.

"Why ever not?"

Sherlock waited and—

"I own you," John said.

There. Just as he had predicted. The comment was coming sooner or later. It always did. This time, though, it hurt. Why did it hurt? Surely, he wasn’t already trusting John Watson? No, he wasn’t like that. He didn’t care about people. 

Caring—loving—is a chemical defect, nothing more.

The doctor grabbed an old t-shirt and sweats, holding them out for Sherlock. "Should be big enough," he said, like nothing had changed, but everything had.

Sherlock undressed in the bathroom. Privacy was nice, he decided. He'd forgotten what it felt like. He splashed cold water on his face, mind working at a million miles per minute. John Watson was nice—the nicest someone had been to him for quite some time. It was different and… good. Sherlock had nearly forgotten what how it felt, to be treated like a human. But John being nice, that didn't mean Sherlock would ever stop fighting. 

Sherlock had been told plenty of times that his stubborn refusal to accept his status didn't do anything but cause more trouble for himself. He couldn't deny the truth, but that didn't mean he'd accept it. Now things were going to be different. John Watson wasn't a despicable man. He didn't treat Sherlock awfully, like the others had. So what could Sherlock do? Give in? Let John own him? Never. 

It didn't matter that John Watson was a good man. Sherlock Holmes needed, somehow, to hate him. If he grew at all comfortable with living here, serving the man who owned him without a second thought, he wouldn't be able to live with himself. He was stronger than this.

It would only be a matter of time before John's personality began to shift, Sherlock knew. Owning another human? It does awful things to a person. Power and control do terrible things. No, Sherlock wouldn't let himself grow to care for John Watson. Soon enough, John's mind would snap into place and Sherlock would be nothing to him. A piece of furniture. A source of meaningless pleasure. Soon enough, John would treat him like the slave that he was. That was a fact. He wouldn't let himself get attached.

He hung his head, deep in thought, hands gripping the sink basin to hold himself up. "Sherlock?" John called from the hallway, jolting him out of his thoughts.

Sherlock took a deep breath, wincing at the strain it put on his wounded back, and slid into the pajamas. He stepped out into the hallway. John nodded at him. "Alright then. I'm heading to bed. Need anything?"

There it was again, the kindness. It could end now or later, and later would ultimately turn out to be more painful. "Why should I think for one second that you'd give me anything I need?" His words were calm and biting. "You think you're so good, treating me like the human I would have been, had my life gone differently. You think I appreciate it. I would fucking appreciate being free, but you can't give me that, can you? You can get rid of me, sure, but it's not your place to set me free." Sherlock tilted his head just slightly, knowing the numbers tattooed on his neck would catch the dim hallway light. "No, I need nothing you could possibly give me. Self-satisfied, insufferable, bastard.”

John's mouth was set in a hard line. His deep blue eyes narrowed. His chin jutted as he assed the situation. For a moment, Sherlock was taken aback by the sheer amount of emotion John’s eyes could hold. “I’m helping you," John said, voice low.

"You can stop. Nothing can help me, let alone a disabled army doctor with a psychosomatic limp, disturbed mental state, lack of leadership skills he was so sure he possessed, with nobody to call a friend or close family, currently unemployed and constantly worrying about his financial state.” 

John's hand curled into a fist. Punch me, Sherlock silently willed. Punch me, so I can hate you.

"I put a blanket and a pillow on the couch,” John growled. He turned towards the bedroom. He hadn’t sounded defeated; he’d sounded determined.

Damn it. Sherlock watched John hobble away. Great. How the hell was he supposed to react to that?

Sherlock laid himself down upon the couch, ignoring his back's discomfort. As long as he could help it, he would not get in John Watson’s bed. He closed his eyes, but sleep never came.

~~~~

A few days passed without incident. Quiet exchanges of meaningless statements, a substantial lack of orders on John's part, and the frustrating, exasperating, defiant attitude Sherlock would not repress. The sky was quiet and overcast, and grey London rain drizzled against the window panes, creating rivulets, minute waterfalls, and liquid roads. The two worked around each other's presence in silence, emitting the polite exchange of 'good morning, Sherlock’ and the hissed 'good morning, Sir.' 

John ate breakfast, then Sherlock ate breakfast. John showered, then Sherlock showered. They were developing a routine. Maybe John could get used to it. Sherlock couldn't.

John sat in his arm chair with the morning newspaper. He lifted his eyes as Sherlock entered the room in an old dressing gown of John's. His gaze followed the man. John'd always thought—known—he was straight, but he couldn't deny the subtle hints of attraction for the slave in front of him. The royal blue robe had always been too long on John, but it was a gift from Harriet, and an uncharacteristically expensive one at that. On Sherlock, it looked... Wow, it looked magnificent. It hung over his broad shoulders and fit his torso nicely, draping and flattering his narrow hips. The deep blue complimented his nearly translucent skin and dark curls. 

He walked past John, straight to the window, where he pulled back the sheer curtain and looked out over the street. 

"It's raining," he said plainly.

"Yeah," John murmured. "It's raining." 

The silver, muted light from the window poured over Sherlock, John’s Sherlock. The raindrops streaming along the glass panes cast subtle shadows along the slave's skin. Kissed the permanent ink along the flesh of his neck. And God, Sherlock’s liquid eyes were glowing. Dangerous.

What were the day's plans? John asked himself. There weren't any, he was quick to decide. Today, it was only Sherlock and him sitting in the dreary flat. Bored out of their minds, no doubt. What could be done about that... John's eyes remained glued on Sherlock as the man stared out the window. 

Fuck him. The voice was violating John's mind once more, but he couldn't help the heat rising to his cheeks and down to... other places. He stood up. Sherlock didn't seem to notice. 

John stepped over to the man at the window. If Sherlock had noticed by now, he'd decided to ignore the approach, keeping his back turned towards John and his eyes fixed out at the rain. Sherlock's Adam's apple bobbed. Of course he knew John was behind him. John was once in the army, but that didn't mean he'd ever been stealthy. 

John reached out with shaky hands, and he placed them on Sherlock's hips. He could feel Sherlock’s body heat through the thin, silky fabric. This isn't wrong. This isn't wrong. The mantra in his mind rang clearly. He's your property. He doesn't matter. He's your property. His purpose is your pleasure.

John stepped up to Sherlock, leaning his forehead against the slave's back. He slid his hands from Sherlock’s waist to his hips. This isn't wrong. John tried to convince himself, but the awful nagging sensation in the back of his skull persisted. 

Calloused hands moved smoothly over Sherlock's thighs and hips and stomach and brushed over his nipples. Flashes of memories swamped Sherlock’s mind. His breathing picked up with the panic that crowded his senses. Control yourself, Sherlock told himself. You're stronger than this. You've dealt with worse... But this was John doing this to him, and somehow that made it so much worse. 

John's lips were warm pressed against the nape of Sherlock's neck.

"You've got a violin," Sherlock uttered suddenly, disgusted with how weak his voice sounded. He just needed to say something—anything—to get John to do something other than what he was doing now.

John lifted his mouth from Sherlock's ashen expanse of neck, confused and annoyed with the interruption. "Sorry?" 

Sherlock attempted to pry himself away, but John's grip on his hips tightened. "There's a violin case against the wall," he managed. 

"The previous owners must've left it... or the landlady, perhaps," John said, more to himself than Sherlock. An breathy laugh escaped his mouth. "Are you meaning to tell me that you can play the violin? Slaves don't play instruments."

Sherlock didn't respond, just leaned down and opened the case the second John's grip loosened. He lifted the instrument carefully, as if he were touching a lover. A creep of sudden jealousy tugged at John’s mind before he shook it unceremoniously away. For Christ’s sake, jealous of a violin?

Reluctantly, John sat back into his armchair. "Play me something, then,” he sighed. 

Sherlock didn't acknowledge the order, but began anyway. The music started softly, harmonizing with the pattering of raindrops. It was a sad song, no doubt. Something John had never heard before. Had Sherlock created it himself? Just now? He watched Sherlock close his eyes as he played. 

His movements were powerful and graceful and elegant. Long sweeps of the bow caressed the strings, pouring out a beautiful melody into the room. Flooding the room. As the piece got louder, John decided this wasn't a sad song. It was a tragic song. A heartbreaking, terrible, beautiful song, and he hadn’t known music even held the capacity to sound like this. Now he did. 

And Sherlock, of all people, was creating it. The arrogant enigma of a broken man. It humanized him. It took a second for John to realize what he had done. Needless to say, John Watson was disgusted with himself in the most overwhelming way. Sherlock had warned him that first night… had warned him of the monster he’d turn into. Instead of relaxing him, now, the music ensnared John and tangled him in its slurs. 

Then it stopped. John sat in his chair, feeling the solid mass of guilt. 

Sherlock stood, illuminated in the window's light, trembling ever so slightly. But he was stronger than this, wasn’t he? 

Maybe not.

~~~~~~~~~

They didn’t talk about what happened that morning.

John got a job at the surgery; Sherlock lounged around at the flat, and on rare occasions he followed John shopping or to work or other mundane, tedious chores of the sort. He hated people—people staring at the numbers on his neck with such disgust one might think they were contagious. John pretended not to notice. Sherlock continuously baited John, waiting for the switch to flip in his mind. It would happen, he reminded himself whenever John shot him a smile, whenever Sherlock became too comfortable. It would happen, and Sherlock would mean nothing whatsoever to John Watson. Sooner was better than later. Don't get attached. You will mean nothing to John, and John will mean everything to you. Caring is not an advantage. 

The evening was going as Sherlock had wanted it to. He was an arrogant arse, and John finally cracked. So far, the two had only eaten take-out, John insisting he was a rubbish cook and too embarrassed to ask Sherlock to cook for him. But that night, he did. For John Watson, the whole sodding day had gone terribly. The surgery that morning was awful, he'd been pick-pocketed on his way back to the flat, and now Sherlock wouldn't let up.

"Even if I could cook something decent—which, actually, I can—there’s no way in hell I'd cook for you. And what are you going to do about it? Nothing." Sherlock leaned back into his chair with a smug look plastered across his face.. "The way you just ordered me, someone might think I was your slave."

John stood from his seat in the kitchen, causing his chair to screech across the floor. "I don't know why I bloody put up with you," he growled. “I never bloody wanted you in the first place!” He walked towards Sherlock, whose eyes were drawn suddenly to John's cane left resting against the table. Definitely psychosomatic, then. "You think you can just keep acting like this? I'll do nothing about it, yeah?” His voice was so low it was nearly a whisper. 

Sherlock's gaze was challenging, and John couldn't take it anymore. He hurried to the hallway cupboard, grabbing the duffel he'd thrown in their first night back. He hadn't wanted to look inside at the time, and so it remained unmoved. Now things were different. He shuffled through the contents, teeth gritted. Handcuffs, a second gray uniform, dear lord was that a collar? There, the riding crop.

"Get down on your knees. Take off your shirt," John ordered, walking back into the main room, surprised by how threatening he sounded.

Sherlock's eyes widened for a split second before he followed his instruction. John had never considered himself a masochist, never even thought about it before, but God did that flash of sudden terror in Sherlock's eyes do things to him, even if it lasted only a second.

Sherlock held his head high and back straight as he lowered himself onto the rug. He'd been trying to work towards this for days now, hadn't he? John Watson was finally doing something awful. The thought, strangely enough, didn't reassure him. The dressing was off of his back now. John had undone it just yesterday. It was mostly healed. The welts and cuts were scars, but the bruises were still colourful. 

John stared at Sherlock, shirtless, kneeling in front of him. He couldn't deny that Sherlock, well fed and healthier-looking, was bloody attractive. His eyes traced the scars of welts and words covering the white expanse of leanly muscled back. Never would he have thought that he'd be adding to the collection, but now it seemed like the only logical thing to do. The only desirable thing to do. A sick realization clouded his mind as the voice in his head screamed that this was what John wanted all along.

“That bet,” Sherlock began quietly, voice a hollow, ringing triumph. “I win.”

John gripped the base of the riding crop, brining it down onto Sherlock's back with a deafening snap. He shouldn't enjoy doing this. Thwack. This was so wrong. Thwack. Thwack. Jesus Christ, what was he turning into? Crack. A monster. Sherlock leaned forward onto the heels of his hands from the force of the whip. His back dripped thin streams of blood onto the flat’s tattered rug, and his eyes stung. It took every ounce of self-control to keep from shouting, from screaming, from turning on John Watson and slamming him into the wall. 

John stood over Sherlock, breathing heavily.

"Tell me why you did it," Sherlock said, his deep voice strong and unwavering despite how helpless he was.

"I think you know bloody well why I did it," John snapped.

"Tell me exactly why you did it."

John thought for a moment. "I don't need to tell you anything. You've no right."

Sherlock was silent. Keep going, his mind pleaded. I need to hate you, don’t you understand?

John was exasperated. ”You're my property, Sherlock. I can do whatever I want with you. I don't even need a reason. Why don't you get it? Why is it so hard for you to just accept this? You're mine. You belong to me. I can't believe I've let you off so easily from the start. You're a fucking slave and nothing more."

Sherlock rose, suppressing the urge to make any sort of noise as a deep, throbbing raked down his back. He met John's eyes defiantly. They used to be oddly warm, and now they were dark with something that arose goosebumps along Sherlock’s exposed flesh. The flip had finally switched. John Watson, caring army doctor, was gone. John Watson, slave owner, had made his inevitable entrance, his grand opening. Sherlock knew it would happen; he was still surprised.

"Get a shower," was all John said. "I'm not dealing with those if they get infected."

~~~~

Sherlock came out of the bathroom, curls dripping water down his neck.

John's eyes flickered towards Sherlock, quickly looking back down at the book he held in quivering hands. John’s eyes were red-rimmed, but Sherlock refused to deduce what on earth it meant.

"I'm going to sleep, now," John muttered, his earlier bravado and confidence vanished.

Sherlock only nodded. John's hands and wrists were rubbed raw by ceaseless washing, Sherlock noticed. Had they been coloured with Sherlock’s blood? More than likely. His head hung, just slightly. The crop itself was haphazardly hidden under the couch, where it had most likely been kicked. Still in the middle of the room was a pattern of small drops of blood in the carpet.

Sherlock had endured so much worse, but his injuries were still substantial. Superficial, nonetheless, he reminded himself. He would survive. The best part was that now he had reason to utterly despise John Watson. He wouldn’t feel guilty disobeying and mocking the man. He wouldn’t feel bad for doing all he could to fight his status. John had insulted him and beaten him, reduced him to nothing at all. Yet for some unknowable reason, all Sherlock could remember was the damaged look on John's face after Sherlock had returned from his shower.

Still, he hated John Watson.

Could he hate John Watson?

Was it even possible to hate John Watson?

Maybe they were both broken.

~~~~

Sherlock woke from a restless sleep in the middle of the night. His bruised back throbbed against the couch, but that wasn't what had woken him...

He could hear John's labored breathing from the end of the hallway. Having a nightmare, then, Sherlock discerned. The both of them often had nightmares—John’s about the war and Sherlock's about the horrors he'd endured over the past years.

Then something caught his attention. John wasn't just whimpering, or screaming, even, like he sometimes did. John was talking. Sherlock couldn't hear the exact words through the door, so he got up, treading softly to the bedroom, trying not to groan aloud with every step. His back was worse than he had thought.  
He opened the door cautiously.

“Sherlock."

Sherlock froze before he realized that John was fast asleep.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry… I'm so sorry," John murmured desperately, tangled in a dream.

Sherlock winced, and without a logical thought in his mind, he slid into the bed next to John. His willpower crumbled with every fraction of movement. The retired soldier’s eyes flashed open. A light sleeper. Sherlock tucked the information away into his mind, the spot reserved for Dr. John Watson.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing in my bed?" His voice was raw.

"You were having a nightmare."

"And so you think this is okay?" John asked in disbelief, propping himself on an elbow and looking over at Sherlock.

"Maybe."

John rolled onto his back, sighing. "I don't know anymore, Sherlock. I just don't know." He waited a moment. "Is your back.. does it-"

"Yes."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Really I am so-"

"Don't say it," Sherlock said quickly. "Don't apologize.” I made you do it.

If you flipped through a dictionary, Sherlock thought, and looked up the entry for kind, you'd see an image of John Watson. Well, maybe.

John took a loud, shaky, breath. "Okay," he exhaled.

Silence engulfed them both. Light from the streetlamp out the window bathed them in a pale glow. John rolled onto his side and reached a hand out to trace the numbers on Sherlock's neck.

John heard a sharp intake of breath, but Sherlock relaxed to his touch. "Were you born free, Sherlock?"

“Yes.” John's fingers were gentle, caring, barely brushing his skin, sending shudders down his spine.

“Do you miss it?”

“Stupid question,” Sherlock mumbled.

"How did it come to this? When?"

"Three years ago, I was so stupid. It was, I—There were drugs, and—” Regret rang through Sherlock's words. His deep voice rumbled.

"What happened?" John's eyelids fluttered shut, but he was still attentively listening. Sherlock's voice was a lullaby.

"Does it matter?" Sherlock snarled, squeezing his eyes shut. "There's nothing I can do. I'm not even my own person any more. I couldn't matter."

"But you do," John whispered. "Of course you matter."

Sherlock was quiet. John let his hand rest on the slave’s neck.

“Why do you trust me?” John asked, voice straining. 

Sherlock only hummed in quiet response. 

“You really shouldn’t.” 

Seconds passed.

"I wish you wouldn't trust me," John said.

"I wish you wouldn't be so kind.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's taken me a while to update! As of now I've still got plans to continue with 'I Wish You Wouldn't Be So Kind.' 
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! Please comment, critique, or review. 
> 
> WARNING: non-con and Slavelock are both triggers, so please don't read if you don't like

When John awoke, Sherlock wasn’t lying next to him in bed. Drifting from the sitting room was a soft melody, lilting from the strings of that old violin. 

John rubbed his eyes, sitting up and wincing as he remembered what had happened the night before, as he remembered the adrenaline that seared through his veins along with that shocking feeling of control, as he remembered Sherlock kneeling on the floor, bloodied and beaten and still anything but broken. After it was over, John felt like the broken one, but the bewitching feeling of power he felt in that moment wouldn’t be driven from his mind. 

And then Sherlock had come into his room, his bed, and comforted him after all that happened. Would this change anything? Everything? John didn’t know. And if Sherlock acted so forgiving after something so painful, after being bloody whipped, would he act the same way if John were to try something… different? Would he still act so forgiving? John couldn't help but wonder.

John got up, uncomfortable with the path his mind was taking. He walked into the sitting room feeling anxious. Would everything be different between them now, after the intimacy of last night? 

Sherlock, too, had had time to think. And he did. He didn’t know what had come over him, going to John. It was against everything he had planned. John’s question had made him uneasy, too. Why did Sherlock trust him? He shouldn’t. Sherlock needed to do anything but trust John, the willing slaveowner. He would not trust John Watson. He would not care for John Watson. He would never love John Watson. 

Sherlock stopped playing abruptly when John entered the room, swiveling to face him and flinching in pain. John noticed immediately that Sherlock wasn’t wearing the blue bathrobe or the normal clothes that John bought him after the first few days. He was wearing that damned slaves’ uniform. 

“Morning, Sherlock,” John began. 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Good morning, Sir,” he said in deceiving calmness. John could nearly taste the hidden bitterness behind his slave’s words. So nothing had changed, had it? What did he even expect to be so different? The tenderness of last night was a slip in the charades, nothing more. 

John looked down and cleared his throat. Sherlock was trying guilt out for a go, reminding John of what he’d done, reminding John of Sherlock’s status and the wrongness of slavery. “Would you show me your back, Sherlock?” he asked, looking up. 

“Well, no. I don’t think I’d like to,” Sherlock said in a mocking manner. 

“Sherlock,” John groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just show me your fucking back, alright?”

“There we go.” Sherlock tugged off the shirt, face twisted in pain, pain that he was quick to hide. 

“Why do you insist on acting like this? Could you just tell me?” John spouted. 

Sherlock’s eyes darkened; his voice remained steady. “If you’ve got to know, John, it’s to remind me of what I am. A slave. Your property, because of my mistakes. I act like this, make you act like this, to keep myself from pretending that we could be friends, because we can’t be. I’m not some masochist who enjoys slavery. I act like this, because I don’t want to submit,” he hissed. “I won’t let myself comply with this. Maybe irritating you is the only sort of rebellion I can manage right now.” 

John was silent. He was feeling something, but he couldn’t decide what. Empathy, anger, frustration, admiration. “Let me see your back.”  
Sherlock turned. John’s stomach clenched. 

“Are they everything you imagined?” Sherlock spat.

“I don’t get it,” John said.

“Don’t get that strapping me leaves wounds?” 

“I don’t get why you insist on acting like this! It’s childish and will do nothing for you. Believe it or not, Sherlock, but you’re stuck like this. I don’t understand.”

“I never asked you to,” Sherlock growled. 

Dr. Watson cleaned and dressed wounds on Sherlock’s back for the second time, but this time it was different. This time he was their artist. The guilt was overwhelming.

~~~

“A friend of mine is stopping over,” John declared one afternoon. 

“This concerns me in what way?” Sherlock snapped, looking up from the medical textbook he held open in his lap. 

“I just wanted to tell you,” John replied. It’d been a week or two since the incident, the latest incident. The one where Sherlock confessed and John almost broke. Things were a little better now. That’s how things worked in 221B. There are periods of calm before the hurricanes. 

“Is this a warning?”

“No.” 

“A threat?”

John furrowed his eyebrows and tilted his head. “A threat, Sherlock? No. Just… be nice.”

“Obey your every command like a mindless servant?” Sherlock asked, voice even, but the glint in his gaze directed John towards the answer Sherlock wanted to hear.

“No!” He lifted his hands into the air, gesticulating for emphasis. “Just be nice.”

Sherlock snorted, disbelieving. “Okay.” His eyes drew back to the text. 

“Fine,” John finished. 

~~~

A couple hours later, and Sherlock was still on the couch reading, a new textbook opened in his lap. 

John stood from his laptop when a knock resounded from the door of the flat. A sandy-haired woman appeared in the doorway. She was short, with blue eyes identical to John’s. Sherlock’s eyes flickered towards her, then back towards his book.

“Harry!” John announced. 

She grinned. “John. How’ve you been?”

“Good, just fine.” He couldn’t keep the smile from his face. “I haven’t seen you in forever! How’s—” John took a deep breath. “How’s rehab been?”

“It’s been alright,” She said. Her eyes flickered around the flat, taking everything in. Then they widened. “You’ve got a slave, John?” 

Sherlock glanced up, holding her gaze.

John ran a hand across the back of his neck. “The army.. gave him to me.”

Her mouth widened a little. “Quite the looker, isn’t he,” she said, laughing a little. “Lucky you, John.” 

Sherlock’s jaw twitched, and John shifted on his feet. “Would you like some tea, Harry?”

She smirked, turning to Sherlock, who lounged on the couch. “Get me some tea—us some tea.” Her voice held that hollow command, the sort that showed she wasn’t in the position or had the permission to boss around slaves often. 

“No.” Sherlock’s eyes didn’t leave the words they were reading. Chambers of the heart. 

Harry’s eyes widened, and she shot John a concerned, bewildered glace. “Yes,” She insisted, turning back to the strange slave who sat like he was a God. “Tea.”

“Harry,” John warned. “I doesn’t work like that, see—“

“No, John. I’d like some fucking tea, alright? The man’s a slave!” Her voice began raising. 

Sherlock stood up, stepping over towards Harry and John. “You’re John’s older sister, Harriet Watson, obviously. Just out of rehab for being an alcoholic, the initial decision for going there begin almost entirely made by John and your boyfriend. You were not very happy about it, at all. The two of you haven’t seen each other for at least a year and a half, after you went to rehab. Your boyfriend just recently broke up with you, too. My condolences,” Sherlock listed, snarling. 

Harriet’s mouth gaped, and red coloured her cheeks. “How—“ She turned to John. 

“Sherlock, how hard would it have been to just get the damn tea?” His voice was strained. 

“Just be nice,” Sherlock sneered. “I was right, wasn’t I? It was a threat.” He turned towards the kitchen, no intention of making tea. “Did I get anything wrong?” He asked casually over his shoulder.

“My girlfriend,” Harry hissed. “I’m gonna go, John,” She remarked quickly, turning towards the doorway. “Nice seeing you.” 

When the door shut behind her, John sighed, running his hands through his short hair. “Thanks, Sherlock,” he breathed, furious with cold, empty rage. Maybe “be nice” was, in fact, a threat.

~~~

And later that night, when some of John’s rugby buddies also seemed to think Sherlock was ‘quite the looker’ at a soccer watching, beer drinking men’s night, John didn’t feel a shred of guilt when he let them ‘mess around a bit.’

The decision to go was last minute, but John figured he might as well spend a night with some old friends, his plans to catch up with Harry being so suddenly cancelled.

“You’re coming with, you know,” John barked at a languid Sherlock as he was tying his shoes. 

“I’m what? Why?” Sherlock jerked upright. “You can’t be serious. I’m not going to watch soccer with your drunk friends from University days. You can’t make me.” There was a sliver of wild in his eyes, a sliver of panic. 

John ignored it. “I sure as bloody hell can. Now get up.” 

When Sherlock and John arrived in one of John’s friend’s flat, a man by the name of Jerry, they were met with a chorus of ‘Johnny boy!’ and ‘Ay, John! How was the army?’

It took only a second after quick greetings for the the four of John’s old friends to raise their eyebrows at Sherlock, to immediately notice the tattooed number on his neck, of course.

“Got yourself a slave, eh?” One of them asked, something more than curiosity flickering through wolfish eyes. John explained the army deal. 

Another laughed. He was shorter, with a belly. “Might have to join the army to get me one of those! They all as pretty as 'im?”

“Is he good in the bedroom?” the third asked. They all laughed.

Sherlock, face stony and superior, stared right through them. 

After a great amount of alcohol consumption and telly-watching and obnoxious cheering, eyes began shifting towards Sherlock more frequently. Sherlock tried his hardest to blend into the walls, but he could only do so much. 

One of the men left, leaving John, Jerry, the wolfish one, and the short one. 

Finally, the wolfish one—what was his name, Chris?—turned to John. “Don’t suppose we could mess around with your slave a bit, Johnny?”

The other pairs of eyes piqued with interest. It was too obvious they’d all been eyeing Sherlock the duration of the evening, too. 

John knew the request was coming sooner or later, and laughed lightly. “Oh why not, just don’t be too hard on the bastard.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. They met John’s, pleading. 

Let him—make him—play the bloody slave, John thought bitterly. He’d gotten enough chances with John’s empathy. For once, there was no ‘rebelling’ that could be done. 

In a second, there were greedy lips pressed against Sherlock’s. Greedy, beer-tasting lips. The one with the wolf eyes. Fingers tangled in his curls, painfully tangled and tugging and yanking. Sherlock tried desperately to keep his mouth closed against the invasion of a strange tongue, but a severe yank to his hair, and he could help but emit a quiet whimper, giving the wolf access inside of his mouth. 

The man released his grip on Sherlock, breaking the kiss with a sloppy smack. Sherlock shot fervent glances towards John, silently willing him to put an end to this. John seemed checked out. Not paying too close of attention, not participating, but still the reason any of this was happening. The slave could see not only wolf man’s pants beginning to tent, but the other two men’s as well. 

His breathing picked up when he heard the first of three zippers open. Flashes of memories ricocheted through his mind. Nightmares. Too soon, the fingers were tangled at the back of his head once more. 

~~~

The cab ride home was crackling with tension and silence. Sherlock’s lips were bruised and swollen and his throat raw. John’s lips were pursed and his fingers drummed on his thigh. 

Neither spoke. Drum, drum, drum. Drum, drum, drum. Sherlock could hear the beating of his heart and the pulsing of his blood in the rhythm of John’s fingers. 

When they got back into the flat, Sherlock was being crushed with the need of an answer. “Why?” his voice cracked, but only oh so slightly.  
John didn’t reply, walking into the kitchen and starting a brew. 

“It was because of Harry, wasn’t it? Because of the way I’ve been acting towards you? Tell me,” he demanded, quiet and desperate and raw with startling emotion that was always so hidden. 

“I don’t know.” John’s voice was stern. “You’re a slave, aren’t you? Didn’t you tell me you needed to keep reminding yourself that? So you can fight your own little battle inside, knowing it won’t change anything?” 

Minutes later, John heard the bathroom door click shut. He swiveled. He hadn’t even heard Sherlock walk away.

~~~

John lay still under his bedsheets. He tried to sleep, but sleep deceived him. Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock’s pleading eyes. John’s body racked with silent sobs. His life was becoming a horrific cycle: fall into a rhythmic normal with Sherlock, become high on the power of control, do something devastating to the man whose trust he was gaining, and shatter everything, beg for forgiveness, possibly and fragilely fall into a new rhythmic normal with Sherlock. Rinse. Repeat. 

This time he went too far, John knew that for sure. Would there be an adapted normal waiting tomorrow? Probably not, because John Watson went too fucking far and he knew it.

Was this really who he was becoming? A heartless ex-soldier who agreed to the sexual assault of a helpless man? Christ. He was becoming despicable and well aware of it. Sherlocks words floated through his consciousness, “It does things to a person, slavery.”

If Doctor John Watson knew anything at all, if he knew just one simple fact, it was that he had to set this right. 

If only he could give Sherlock his freedom, but it was illegal and punishable. There were reasons slaves were slaves, and so slaves remained slaves. He could return Sherlock, 03172, if he so desired, but who knows where the man would end up. 

Tendrils of sleep dragged the whirring gears of John’s mind to a stop as he drifted into subconsciousness with a final image repeating repeating repeating: Sherlock’s eyes. 

~~~

When John wandered into the living room the next morning, he saw Sherlock lying on the couch, fingers steepled against his lips as if he were whispering prayers to a higher being, but Sherlock was the type of man who believed only in himself. 

Strange was John’s immediate thought. 

Dead was John’s next.

For a heart-racing second, Sherlock’s utter stillness mocked death, and John Watson’s pulse exploded. Not dead, he thought frantically. He can’t be dead. With the slightest rise of the slave’s chest, John was reassured Sherlock lived. 

He let his eyes travel over Sherlock’s sleeping form, and even in sleep he looked guarded. A man of solid marble. An untouchable figure, a god, submerged in his own mind. 

John’s eyes snagged on his slave’s neck in a split second. The tattoo, the damned numbers 03172, were layered with scratches in shades of alarming red. Thin lines of dried blood and raised skin. Sherlock, desperate, tried to scratch off the ink soaked into his skin—the ink that showed the world he was less worthy than them, that would hold him forever in the position of slave when the world was overflowing with cruel masters. 

Empathy swallowed John whole. Where was that empathy yesterday? John’s subconscious barked at itself. 

~~~

Sherlock’s eyelids opened to the glowing light of late morning drifting through the flat window, and when it caught his half-lidded eyes, he imagined he was in his four-poster childhood bed. Reality struck with a defining blow.

Sherlock’s neck stung, a slow burn. 

Rolling onto his feet and off of the couch, he noticed a note, yellow, torn off a notepad, atop the coffee table. “Sherlock— I’m at work. There’s tea in the kitchen. —John.”  
Sherlock bit his cheek.

The day dragged on and on and on. Sherlock couldn’t decide if he was anxiously awaiting John, dreading John, excited for John to get home or something else entirely. His head hurt. Damned emotions. 

And when the flat door finally opened later that afternoon, John found Sherlock pacing back and forth in the living room, navy robe fluttering behind him. John shut the door with an audible click, and Sherlock stopped his pacing and stared at John like a deer in the headlights.

John cleared his throat. 

Sherlock stared. 

John looked down, shifted on his feet, and looked up again. “I’m sorry.” There. He’d said it. 

Sherlock’s brow creased, and he tonelessly asked, “You’re sorry?” 

John had trouble maintaining eye contact. “Yes,” he breathed. 

Sherlock only blinked and nodded. “You’re all sorry at first,” he said, but there was no bite behind his words. 

John pressed his lips together, cleared his throat once more for good measure, and continued, looking up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I brought you this.”

John lifted his hand, which held a bag. Sherlock stepped forward, and his footfalls seemed intrusively loud in their silence. 

He pulled out a midnight blue scarf and then set it on the side table. 

“I thought you might like wearing it… you know…” John cut in, eyes glancing towards Sherlock’s neck. “And the colour—“ John paused. “Suits you.” He rubbed the back of his neck. 

Sherlock looked up.

“There’s more,” John added. 

Sherlock reached into the bag again. It was a Belstaff coat. He swallowed. “Is this an apology?” 

“Try it on,” John said. 

“Is it,” Sherlock repeated, “an apology?”

“No. Yes.” John tensed. “I don’t know, Sherlock. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I know a… a bloody coat doesn’t change anything, okay? I know that. A coat’s not going to fix this.”

So Sherlock slipped the coat over his shoulders, and John sighed and managed a weak, slightly pained half-smile. “Do you like it at least?”  
“John Watson, you never cease to surprise me.”

“I was thinking we could have dinner at Angelo’s.”

Sherlock’s terse nod was a beat too late. 

“Is there something wrong?” John asked. Sherlock stared. “I’m sorry,” John continued, mumbling. “Everything’s wrong, isn’t it? I meant, is there something wrong with Angelo’s?”

Again, the slave’s reply was stiff. “No, it’s fine.”

“Alright then. Fine. Dinner at seven.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, John. I'll try to update as soon as I can! Thank you for reading.


	3. Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long while, so I reposted what was previously the really short first third chapter at the end of the second. This is new, and hot, and full of complications and desire. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Also--because of this chapter and the chapters I'm planning to have follow, I've raised this fic from Teen and Up to Mature audiences. Have fun ;)

Sherlock’s new scarf twisted around his neck, successfully hiding the only thing distinguishing himself from the free public. 03172. The taller man’s new coat fit neatly, and John couldn’t help but feel like something—albeit small—something was finally going right as they strode down the sidewalk. Sherlock strode actually. John… trotted alongside. 

“You’ve been there, haven’t you?” John’s question seemed more of a statement. “Angelo’s?”

Sherlock hummed a neutral response. John didn’t prod further. 

The two kept walking, breath fogging in the chill of the evening. Light spilled from the sidewalk window of the restaurant, and John lifted his hand from his coat pocket to hold the door open for Sherlock. 

The slave hesitated. 

“Sherlock!” Angelo’s Italian accent boomed as he neared them, smile spreading across his face. 

John’s lips parted and his eyebrows knit together. The two knew each other?

Angelo’s thick arms wrapped around Sherlock’s lanky frame in a quick embrace. “I haven’t seen you in a few years! Where you been?”

Sherlock hesitated, offering a small, polite smile. “Around.” His eyes flickered towards John as he said it.

“And who is this with you?” The restaurant owner asked with his lips quirked to a corner. He gestured to the window table. 

John cleared his throat. “John. John Watson. I’m Sherlock’s—“

“—colleague,” Sherlock interrupted. “Just my colleague.” 

“Ah, whatever you say, Sherlock, and I’ll believe it.” Angelo laughed and winked and said, “Let me grab the two of you a candle. Dinner is on the house for you and your date tonight, Sherlock!”

When the host was out of earshot, Sherlock spoke quickly. “I’m sorry. I should’ve said something.” 

“How—how do you know him?” John tilted his head, leaning into the conversation.

“Something from my past, alright? A long time ago. Like I said, I should’ve warned you; we could’ve gone somewhere else.” 

“Care to elaborate?”

“I’d rather not, thank you,” Sherlock snapped. “It doesn’t matter.”

John inhaled sharply before nodding. “Fine.” And after a pause: “He thinks I’m your date.”

Sherlock’s eyes rolled.

When the two were finished and satisfied with their plates of pasta, ready to leave, Angelo came over and slung a merry hand down on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“Sherlock,” he boomed, “and John, I hope the both of you enjoyed your night. You know,” he continued, facing John, “this man got me out of a sentence of servitude, he did! I would’ve been a slave without him! Proved me innocent of murder—he’s a good man, this Sherlock.”

John’s gaze flickered to his slave, whose eyes were on a smiling Angelo.

“Let me know if you ever need anything!” the restaurant owner finished, with a final, hearty pat on Sherlock’s back. 

The two left, and the walk home was still cold, but something about it was warm. 

“What was that all about?” John asked, tilting his head towards Sherlock.

“Like he said, I got him off a murder charge—proved he was shoplifting on the other side of London.”

John laughed, a strange and enjoyable sound, and Sherlock felt himself smile. 

“So… you were some sort of detective? Private investigator?” John’s words were clean and curious.

“Something of the sort.” Sherlock slid his hands into his coat pockets, contemplating. “A consulting detective, actually. The world’s only.” 

“Is that so?” John’s voice lilted in a smile. “Tell me what that might mean.”

So Sherlock told him of Scotland Yard, of the cases and murders and kidnappings, and the thrill of it. John listened, fascinated. Once more, curiosity burned through him, and John wondered how Sherlock ended up where he was now, but Sherlock didn’t tell, and John didn’t ask. 

The flat was warm when they got back; lights accidentally left on welcomed them home. John watched Sherlock slide his scarf off his neck, and his coat off his shoulders. John watched him hang them up and watched him pause. 

When Sherlock looked up, John caught his eyes and saw in them a wary sort of kindness and the same warm curiosity. 

John stepped closer, leaned in, and kissed Sherlock. It was chaste, a tender press of lips, until John felt Sherlock’s hand wrap around the back of his neck and felt the man’s mouth part beneath his own. 

Sometimes you could be thinking one thing and feeling another. 

John moved a hand against Sherlock’s waist, and the slave stepped back, pressed against the wall. His lips moved against John’s lips, hungry, eager. His tongue felt John’s and a heavy breath escaped his lungs. So John, kissing Sherlock, tugged the slave’s shirt from his trousers and slid his hand against the warm skin of his back and his ribs. 

Sherlock breathed, and it came out a moan. John moved his body flush against Sherlock’s, pressing a thigh between the man’s legs. The calloused, rough hands of a soldier and a doctor moved across the plain of Sherlock’s stomach and chest, under his shirt. Fingertips skimmed nipples. Sherlock gasped, and John reveled in the opportunity to kiss deeper into his mouth. 

The sound of their breathing—heavy and hot and wanting—seemed to echo in the stillness of the flat. John ground his lips along Sherlock’s jaw. His fingers slid down the slave’s torso and over the front of his trousers. Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath was followed by a harsh groan as John grabbed his length through the fabric, kneading the growing bulge. 

“Fuck,” John spat. He attacked Sherlock’s mouth with his own, nipping at plush lips and delving into the corner’s of the man’s mouth with his tongue.  
Their chests rose and fell at a heightened tempo.

Sherlock’s arms were wrapped around John’s, gripping his shoulder blades. He felt a trace of something, a scar? He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. One of John’s hands worked between Sherlock’s legs and the other moved to hold Sherlock’s chin, to tilt his head up against the wall and expose his neck. 

John’s mouth lowered to the black scrawls of ink that stood in stark contrast to the slave’s near-translucent skin. He began sucking and nipping at them, tracing the numbers with his tongue and breath, ghosting them with his teeth. 

Sherlock froze. Something hot and burning and prickling unfurled in his chest, and he couldn’t determine if it was desire or sex or disgust but it was quiet possibly shame. His mind fogged with heat and he didn’t like the confusion of it, the uncertainty and wrongness. 

He looked at John Watson, his hooded eyelids and reddened, greedy lips, and John Watson’s face screamed “Lust.” 

Nothing was right but Sherlock guessed it was righter before John became fascinated with the fucking tattoo on Sherlock’s neck. He didn’t want to think of what it meant. He didn’t want to remember, but memories posses a subconscious and unrelenting control of their own. 

John Watson was a good man, Sherlock reminded himself. Well, almost. Well, sometimes. 

He was kinder than those that came before him, and that counted for something. He had kind eyes. Well, sometimes. But John wasn’t doing anything wrong, Sherlock knew. Sherlock wanted this, even. 

Still, with each of John’s ragged breaths against Sherlock’s neck, his shoulder, with each of his bites and kisses, Sherlock saw a small man with big, black eyes and a lilting Irish accent. He didn’t want to remember, but memories are merciless. 

“Couch,” breathed John, a rumble from deep in his chest.

Sherlock was in no position to say no, and he wasn’t sure he’d want to even if he could. “John,” he murmured into the man’s mouth, grateful it was that name he was breathing among others he’d whispered in the past. Stubble grazed raw lips and pale cheeks. 

John, with Sherlock’s wrists in his grip and their mouths locked together, pulled his slave to the sofa and pushed him down into the cushions, none too gently, and straddled his lean frame. 

Panting, they pulled down trousers and pants. John hissed through clenched teeth when their cocks rubbed against one another, throbbing and hot. He gripped them with one hand, pinned Sherlock’s wrists with the other, and jerked his hips in heady thrusts. 

A deep, breathy moan escaped Sherlock’s swollen lips. “Fuck yes,” John hissed. “Fucking gorgeous.” 

He invaded Sherlock’s mouth with his own, unrelenting. Sherlock began kissing back, but stopped. He had an intimate relationship with dominance, and he knew that it wasn’t his to have. 

Still, Sherlock’s low groans quickened to short gasps of sticky air. John came on him, cursing, and a few pumps later Sherlock was quick to follow. They caught their breaths in the dim London flat. 

John tried words on his tongue, “I… That was… I mean…” and he decided on, “You should probably get yourself cleaned up.”

So Sherlock did. John went to bed. That was that. 

Sherlock figured that was the end of it, the first and last time. Sherlock figured it was some mistake John made—deprived of sex one day too long, having had one glass of wine too many. Sherlock’s theory was validated when, the next morning over tea, John told him, “That won’t happen again.” And he apologized, and he gave Sherlock a quiet, trying smile.

Sherlock didn’t know what to make of it. He felt some part disappointment, some part confusion. Mostly relief, he realized. Boundaries had been reestablished; a dysfunctional sort of routine could resume. 

The problem with “It won’t happen again” is that it kept happening. 

John would find himself with his hands down Sherlock’s trousers, with his cock in Sherlock’s pretty little mouth, with Sherlock naked, bent over the kitchen table. Each time, half-mad with lust: “Say it. Fucking say yes.” And Sherlock, vulnerable, breathing hard: “God, yes, John.”

It was obvious, really. The question and affirmation allowed John Watson some sliver of moral righting, some semblance of normality. Every time, Sherlock wondered what John would do if he said no instead of yes. Not that he would, of course. 

Maybe sometimes he might. He didn’t know. 

John would be fucking him, and Sherlock would want, simultaneously, to tell him to stop, to push him away, and to pull him closer and tell him he never wanted it to end. Emotions, Sherlock decided, were not his area. 

~~~

Sherlock was naked and hot and in John’s bed, and John was on top of him. “Say yes, Sherlock. Say it.” John’s fingers dug into the slave’s boney hips.

Sherlock hesitated. If he said no, John might stop. If he said no, John might keep fucking him, anyway. Sherlock didn’t want to find out. “Yes, John,” he breathed.

The next morning Sherlock woke up in John’s bed, one of the man’s arms resting on his chest. Bruises along his hips were blue-green with the memory of John’s fingertips. The melody Sherlock composed on his violin later that day was blue-green, as well, and John hummed along, and that tugged a small smile out of Sherlock’s lips. 

~~~

One evening, John walked into 221B Baker Street to Sherlock lying on the sofa like a dead man, arms and hands resting in that prayer-like position—fingers pressed to lips, eyes quietly closed. John looked him over; it wasn’t the first time he caught Sherlock like this, thinking and far gone. It had turned from unsettling to endearing, in a way. 

John hung up his coat, walked over to his laptop, and sat down into his chair. He began typing responses to some emails, and asked across the room, “Do you believe in God, Sherlock?”

Sherlock exhaled through his nose, slowly. “God is a construct created by desperate sinners, so no.” His eyes opened, languid. “Do you, John Watson?” 

~~~

One morning John went to make tea, and Sherlock was sitting at the table, reading the newspaper, deducing the criminals and the fraud from the headlines, and rolling his eyes at the stupidity of Scotland Yard. John made his tea and stepped to the fridge from milk. A huff of breath puffed from parts lips.

Sherlock looked up at John, who held an empty carton of milk before him. “We’re out.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock deadpanned. 

John took no notice. “Get some more today, Sherlock, I’ve got work.”

There was something in the ex-soldier’s voice that put Sherlock on edge. He wanted to test out the word—in a different context, but still—and feel it in his mouth, against the back of his teeth. “No.”

John looked up in surprise. “What, are you to busy?” he snapped, eyes wide and challenging. 

Sherlock hummed a flat note in response. 

John walked over to him, posture solid and a bit intimidating. Sherlock kept stubborn eyes on his paper, so John reached down and turned Sherlock’s chin toward him. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock, long and slow. “Get the milk, please.” He phrased it like a question and said it like a command. 

It made Sherlock wonder if John kissed him because he wanted to or kissed him because he could. Sherlock walked to the corner shop and bought the milk. 

He flipped up his collar on his way back—along crisp London sidewalks—and he considered walking to 221B Baker Street and walking past it and not turning around. But he stopped and walked into the flat and he waited for John to get home. 

That’s what most days were like: waiting and reading and trying not to remember things he wanted to forget, but it was hard because Sherlock’s mind was a palace.  
He could spend hours, maybe days, wandering its corridors and basements—but not weeks. He couldn’t spend this new lifetime cooped up with his thoughts. Sherlock needed to breath. He didn’t know what he needed. It was illogical.

~~~

Rain hit the taxi roof as John cabbed home from the hospital; he got out of the car and heard gunshots. Sherlock. 

He raced up the stairs and threw open the door, heart pounding. Sherlock sat in his chair, John’s handgun shooting rounds into their living room wallpaper. “Bored,” he said. The gun went off. “So. Bored.” Louder, another bang. 

“Sherlock, what is going on?” John shouted. “Give me the gun!” 

Sherlock tossed it at him—locked and loaded. John caught it with an unflinching hand and set it onto the coffee table. 

“I thought…” John paused, looking down and back up again. “I don’t know what I bloody thought, Sherlock. That maybe someone had broken in?”

The slave rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, I’m fine. I’d have been fine, John.” 

“Unless you hadn’t been,” he said, voice lowered. And John wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s neck and kissed him hard, with what Sherlock felt wasn’t quite desire, which was more like rage, or perhaps a combination of the two that was uniquely John Watson. 

He pulled away with a wet noise. “Come to bed. Say yes.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything at all. 

“Say it,” John repeated, and kissed him gentler, persuading.

And when he stopped, Sherlock asked, “Why?”

John scoffed. “I thought you’d been bloody shot, Sherlock, you idiot.” And his voice was the temperature of morning tea. 

“No,” Sherlock insisted. “What is this?”

John leaned back, wary. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Sherlock said, a level, uncaring quality to his voice, “What is all of this? It’s not love, so what is it? Because I’m here?” Sherlock couldn’t read the dark gray of John Watson’s eyes. 

He went to bed with him anyway. This time it didn’t feel like desire or rage, but something entirely different. John Watson was a complicated creature. 

The two laid in John’s bed after it was done, both pretending to sleep and knowing the other was still awake. John hated this game. 

Sherlock slept in John’s room most nights now, all nights now. He woke up in John’s bed in the mornings. John had offered to clean out the room of junk and storage upstairs, but Sherlock had said, “There’s not much of a point, is there?” John figured he was right. 

And when Sherlock remembered that promise to himself, months ago when he was new and infuriating and John was new and intriguing. He remembered promising to himself he’d do whatever he could to stay out of John’s bed for as long as possible. 

Now, half of him felt guilty and heavy with a strange foreign shame, and the other half told that half to shut up and get over it. This is how things are now, it said. 

So Sherlock laid and tried to slow his breathing, and he could feel the tension of knowing John was trying to do the same thing. And then he spoke—which was very new. “Tell me something about yourself,” John said. “Tell me something you’ve wanted someone to know.”

Sherlock had to arrange the words he wanted to say before he spoke them out loud. “My brother knew I was an addict. He was a few years older, annoyed at my ‘childish’ behavior. He helped me get better at first, promised he’d fix it, I was only… fifteen or so when I started. I got clean, got to uni, and got caught up in the same deals again.”

John moved from laying on his back to facing the man next to him. 

“He was furious; I was furious and young and stupid. I got it figured out for myself for a while, until I didn’t. He knew when I became indentured. He knew when I was given these tattoos, when I got my first master,” Sherlock spat the last word. “He could’ve fixed it, and he didn’t do a thing.”

“He couldn’t have fixed it, though. People can’t just do that, can they?” John murmured. 

Sherlock’s laugh was a harsh, humorless thing. “Trust me, he’s got enough power to do whatever he wants. Mycroft has more power than the queen and the Parliament together. No, John, he’s still lording over me with his pitying eyes and lust for my punishment. To him, I had this coming. Maybe I did. Haven’t seen him in four years.” 

John didn’t have anything to say, so Sherlock continued.

“What about you, John Watson? What’s the sob story of poor army veteran?” 

John swallowed. “My father broke my arm when I was eight years old.” 

Sherlock, on his back, turned his head to meet John’s eyes. 

“We were working on the front gate… I kept dropping the pieces and losing them; they were slipping through my fingers. So, he got fed up and grabbed my arm. Wasn’t the first time he’d shook me up a bit. Just this time I got a little more bloody shaken.

“He made me tell my mom I tripped and fell, and you, Sherlock, are the only one who knows the real story.” John grimaced, a harsh smile in the dark. 

And somehow, Sherlock’s head rested against John’s neck, and John’s arm rested around Sherlock’s shoulder, and their feet and calves found themselves woven together. 

Sherlock realized, glaringly, that John Watson was not a kind man, nor was he a monster. John Watson didn’t fit into categories.  
He was simply human. 

Sherlock had a complicated history with intimacy, yet he could feel John’s pulse against his cheek and his chest felt tight and he decided what he thought he’d defined it as had never been true. Intimacy was a delicate thing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and feedback are appreciated! Thank you for reading :) I'll post another chapter as soon as I can.


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